


traffic

by sonatine



Series: coffee shop verse [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Barista Natasha, F/F, Femslash, M/M, Modern AU, coffee shop AU, pepper potts is HBIC of stark industries as per usual, tattoo artist natasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-16 22:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7287457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonatine/pseuds/sonatine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pepper Potts comes into a coffee shop looking for a certain hooky-playing Bucky Barnes, and instead meets Natasha Romanoff</p>
            </blockquote>





	traffic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtybinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybinary/gifts).



Natasha is alone in the coffee shop when the lady walks in because it's Bucky’s day off and he and Steve are probably adopting a score of foster children or something and Clint is coming in late because he's a human garbage can that injured himself rescuing a cat from a tree (or maybe a small man getting beat up by the mob—whatever—either way, his random acts of ~~idiocy~~ kindness are making Natasha’s life harder).

_Lady_ is the only operative word here, because this is a woman in $2,000 heels, a $1,000 dress, and wearing a smile that could cause a power outage with that kind of wattage.

Also she's a redhead, and Natasha has a weakness for symmetry.

“What can I get started for you?” Natasha asks, leaning forward, because let it never be said that she doesn't enjoy a challenge. And at worst, flustering The Straights is always an enjoyable pastime.

The lady looks adorably confused for a moment. “Hi, yes, I'm looking for Bucky Barnes.”

“He's not here right now, I'm afraid,” Natasha says, straightening and arching her back instead.

The lady frowns. “Huh.”

“You sure there isn't anything _I_ can do for you?” Natasha presses.

“Oh, I don't—sorry.” The lady holds out a hand. “I'm Pepper Potts, Tony Stark’s assistant. Bucky Barnes missed his appointment today, and he's not answering his phone. He’s usually hyper-punctual and very compulsive about calling when he has to reschedule. Tony got worried.”

“Oh,” says Natasha, flushing. “Right, yeah, of course—” and god, she's an idiot, no wonder the lady looks so familiar, Natasha’s only seen her in the background of every press conference and page six photo ever. “He and Steve got a call from the foster care system this morning—their papers finally went through and the adoption might actually happen.”

“Oh!” Pepper says, pleased and surprised. “Okay. I thought Tony was joking. I mean, he definitely said it in his joking voice, but—wow, that's great.”

“It is,” says Natasha, definitely not smiling because she has a heart of ice that cannot be melted by a chubby toddler that clings to her leg and tickles her with his nose. “So I'm sure he just forgot to call. He’s fine—his arm is fine—at least, last I heard.”

“Good,” Pepper says, now distracted by her phone, “Tony will be glad to hear— he’s been worried about the new microprocessor—yeah, can I get a couple bags of your house blend, please? Tony likes your formula,” and isn't that something? The most famous biochemical engineer in Manhattan likes Natasha’s chemistry.

+

It takes Natasha a minute to place the girl standing in front of her chair. Her eight o’clock appointment was a no-show, so Fury said he was bumping up her nine p.m., who was somehow _already there_. Who shows up an hour early to hang around in a tattoo parlor waiting room, for real?—but then Natasha recognizes her and can't control her jaw drop.

Because sliding into Natasha’s battered chair with the ripping leather and stuffing sticking out is Pepper Potts in a soft t-shirt, ripped jeans, and Converse. Natasha swallows convulsively.

“If you're looking for Bucky Barnes again, I can tell you for sure that he’s not here.”

Pepper grins. “Please tell me he's afraid of needles.”

“Can't. It's in my contract not to undermine his authority.”

Pepper cackles. Natasha could listen to the sound forever, but let it not be said that she’s not a professional.

“So what am I doing for you today?” she asks and Pepper hands over her phone, already open to a picture of lush watercolor flowers.

“They say you're the best watercolorist in Brooklyn,” Pepper says uncertainly, so Natasha has to set that straight.

“In the _city,”_ she says, and Pepper’s smile is back. “These are the exact colors you want?” 

“Yep. Word for word. I mean—oh, you know what I mean,” Pepper says and pulls up her shirt to expose her stomach. “I want it along the left—like on the side—will that work?”

“Mmhm.” Natasha is grateful for the guise of getting supplies together, because she has just caught a glimpse of _Calvin Klein boxers_ peeking out from the waistband Pepper’s jeans.

“Okay, usually the way it works here is that you do a consultation first—just to make sure we’re both on the same page with what you want, and the price—”

“Oh, I consulted with Nick last week,” Pepper says, waving a hand. “Paperwork’s signed and everything. He only scheduled me to come back this week because he said you were the watercolor expert and booked solid for ten months straight.”

Natasha finishes the material prep and sanitizes her hands. “And so you're sitting in my chair now because…?”

“Nick’s an old friend. He called and said if I could get here in ten minutes the appointment would be mine.”

“You live nearby?”

“Midtown.” Pepper grins, a giant shit-eating grin, at the look on Natasha’s face. “Sometimes working for Tony Stark has its perks.”

“Yeah, I bet it does,” Natasha murmurs, suddenly very aware of all the romance rumors that surround billionaire Tony Stark and his famous assistant.

+

“You don't have to watch,” Natasha teases as she starts the outline.

“Oh thank god.” Pepper lets out a breath and raises her eyes to stare at Natasha’s face instead. “You won't tell people I'm a wimp?”

“I would never,” she says absently, slipping into the zone.

There’s a few minutes of comfortable quiet, then Natasha hits the hipbone and Pepper sucks in a breath.

“So how long have you been working at the café?” she asks, because of course she calls it that and not a _coffee shop_ , because she is cultured and shit.

“Six years.”

Natasha doesn't even have to think about it, because Bucky met Steve soon after she started working there and they are these super weirdos that never allow anyone to do anything in celebration of their birthdays, but come their anniversary they plan a week-long celebration.

She’s happy for them, she really is, and she absolutely enjoys being single, but sometimes it's hard not to feel a little wistful in the face of such—teamwork.

“So you were there during the fire,” Pepper says gently.

“Yeah.” Natasha finishes the outline and reaches for the cloth. “That was a rough year. The insurance company were being _dicks_ and he almost lost the shop.”

“Is that why they started fostering?”

“Um. Sort of. Steve had already dropped nannying to do his design stuff full time, and I think he missed being around kids. The extra money didn't really have anything to do with their decision, but I guess it helped keep the shop open, yeah.”

“Was Jim their first child?”

“Nah, they had a couple more before him. They all went back to their bio parents after a few months and honesty, I think Bucky got started on the adoption process as soon as Jim arrived. You should've seen Steve’s face every time he had to give a kid back.”

“It's a tough system,” Pepper says, and Natasha just shrugs, because doesn't she know it.

+

Pepper is her last appointment of this night, so Natasha doesn't feel bad about taking her time. She checks in around ten p.m.—“How you doing? You want to take a break, finish up at a follow-up appointment another day?” but Pepper just says breathlessly, “No, it's fine, go ahead.”

Natasha is wrapping up when she gets a text from Bucky that's just a string of hearts and crying faces and exclamation points. She smiles to herself, maybe blinks back _a_ tear, she's only human, and walks Pepper through the aftercare process.

“Call me if you forget or have any questions,” Natasha adds, writing her number on the back of an old receipt she fished out of her pocket. (Jesus, she needs to get business cards, what a class-act, Romanoff.)

“Okay,” says Pepper, poking experimentally at the bandaging. “Can I wash it?”

“Yeah, after you take the covering off. Use soft soap, maybe unscented. You seem like the type with sensitive skin.”

“Have to use moisturizer with SPF every morning,” Pepper agrees cheerfully, and Natasha feels the sides of her mouth pulling up.

“Thank you,” Pepper adds, a little reverently. “I'm so excited to see it.”

“You're welcome. Send me pictures of how it turns out, okay?”

“Definitely,” and then she's waving goodbye and is out the door. Natasha feels oddly bereft.

She checks her direct deposit the next day and sees the tip Pepper left her and drops the mug out of which she's drinking. Clint fetches a broom with a highly satisfied expression; the tally of broken items is now 55 - 4 rather than 3.

+

Natasha gets a text from an unknown number a few days later with a photo attachment. She can see a bare shoulder and the end of a ponytail above her work.

She saves the number in her phone as Potts, because anything else feels too hopeful.

+

A few weeks later her phone buzzes with the photo of a bare shoulder with a red ponytail pulled over it, highlights glinting. Natasha’s finger hovers over the screen for a moment before sliding it open.

“Hey, this is actually Natasha.”

“Good?” Pepper sounds amused. “How are you?”

“Can't complain. Thought you might've hit the wrong number.”

“No, I wanted to talk to you. How would you feel about doing working a benefit?”

“Explain.”

A charity event for non-profit arts education programs, hosted at Stark Tower, black-tie, and Pepper wants _Natasha Romanoff_ , barista and tattoo artist, to be one of the featured programs.

“They'll be temporary tattoos, of course—getting everyone to sign a waiver would be a logistical nightmare and there’ll be minors present—but it'll look beautiful in your style and I think people will go crazy for it. What do you think?”

Natasha hesitates because when something sounds too good to be true, it probably is, and then Pepper jumps in with the fee.

Natasha laughs hollowly because now she _knows_ she’s being duped, and then before she knows it there is a car outside the coffee shop waiting to drive her to Stark Tower to sign forms and talk details.

She and Bucky cross paths as he rolls in at ten to take over her shift (looking exhausted but happy, and mildly bewildered) and she rolls into the Rolls with a roll of her eyes and a roiling stomach.

+

“I hope you like sushi,” is how Pepper greets her when Natasha walks from the elevator into the penthouse unit. She feels vastly out of place in her grungy work flannel and boots and resists the temptation to fix her hair.

“Yeah, love it,” is all she says and damn, she could get used to this billionaire lifestyle because Pepper has sake and dessert for them too.

Pepper is in pants and a button-down today, a middle ground between her off-duty wear and PA posh; Natasha wonders if there are panties or boxers underneath and has to take a large bite of ginger salad.

Fortunately Pepper is well-versed in bringing out the best in even the most recalcitrant of social partners, and they're chatting easily about the event before long.

“And I think the middle-left quadrant is the best place to have you,” Pepper says. “Just between the auction pieces and display of works from kids in the program.”

“What's going to be auctioned?”

“Here—” Pepper slides over the tablet and lets Natasha flip through. “Which do you think should be in the entrance?”

“These,” Natasha says immediately, pointing, and Pepper defers.

“Did you study Art History, too?” she asks, and Natasha shakes her head.

“Did some community college, but dropped out when I started getting into tattooing. I liked it all right but, Dyslexic, you know? I read a lot about art on my own though,” she adds defensively, and Pepper just smiles.

“It shows. Looks at the fucking masterpieces you're making on people,” and the expletive catches Natasha so by surprise that she chokes on her Dragon roll.

“Sorry!” Pepper cries and pounds a hand on Natasha’s back.

“You know—” Natasha says between pummeling “—that hitting someone—actually—is countereffective—to a choking person—”

Pepper immediately stops. “See?” she says. “All that education and not a lick of common sense,” and Natasha just snorts.

“Like you're not brilliant.”

“Technically in MENSA, yeah,” Pepper agrees cheerfully. “But still an idiot in many respects.”

She fixes Natasha with an inexplicable look and it's—suddenly overwhelming. Natasha gets to her feet and murmurs an excuse about being late for work, holding out her hand for an awkward handshake.

Pepper looks taken aback but smoothly adapts, saying she'll call Natasha before next week to iron out last minute details—and Natasha thanks her, a bit desperately, and flees.

+

Natasha flirts heavily with every girl clearly over a Kinsey three that comes into the coffee shop that week. Bucky gives her a look, but says nothing. She gets twelve new numbers and deletes them all.

+

Pepper looks so astonishingly beautiful at the benefit that it soothes Natasha’s nerves. She can handle overconfidence with women out of her league; it's cute, clever girls in oversized button-down shirts and easy laughter that send her spiraling.

The benefit goes off well overall, and Natasha paints over two-hundred designs with skin-safe paint. A man with a kind face and curly hair comes over to her shortly before midnight, shoves a drink and plate of food into her hands, and murmurs, “Take a break.”

She goes and sits crossed-legged on the floor behind the wall-panels on which the silent auction is displayed, enjoying the safety and quiet of the small space.

She says goodbye and congratulations to Pepper on her way out, after her stall is closed and the benefit is dying down, because she's not a complete dick, and there’s a charged moment where Pepper’s hand is on her arm and Natasha thinks, _maybe_ —

And then someone quite literally shrieks, _Oh my god, it's Tony Stark_ and the benefit revs up to full roar again.

Natasha leaves.

+

If Bucky notices Natasha moping over the next two weeks, he doesn't say anything. Clint takes the blame for all the wrong orders. Steve takes her to the park and makes her sketch with him, like the bossy asshole he is, and she's grateful.

+

Natasha’s heart rate speeds up when she’s leaving the coffee shop in Clint’s kind-of-capable hands one afternoon to grab some cheap food on her way to the parlor and sees a black Rolls Royce with (definitely illegal) opaque windows idling on the street.

It could be a mafioso, she thinks hopefully, but the door opens and inside is the human personification of Hestia, warm and lovely, in taupe heels.

“Can I give you a lift?” Pepper asks, tapping merrily away on her phone. “I was in the neighborhood. You're going to Nick’s right?”

Natasha climbs in the car, because she's a fucking coward, but Pepper doesn't have to know that, and geez, she wasn't kidding—there are boxes piled on the floor and right-hand seat.

Pepper scooches back so that _Natasha_ can squeeze into the tiny middle seat and it's this dick move that quells Natasha’s anxiety. She hops in.

Pepper presses a button under the window that allows her to talk to the driver on the other side of the mirrored-glass panel, “Take the other way, Happy—the one with _slightly_ less traffic.”

“You got it, boss,” a male voice says and the speaker crackles out.

“Have you eaten?” Pepper asks.

Natasha shakes her head, leaning back and man-spreading. She _thinks_ Pepper’s gaze lingers, but then Pepper says in her completely normal charming tone, “Wendy’s or Chipotle?”

“Five Guys,” Natasha says, to be difficult, and Pepper says, “ _Yes_ ,” and relays the message to the man whose parents chose to name him Happy.

“Tony hates Five Guys,” Pepper says, finishing a text and then tucking her phone into the seatback pocket. “Well, actually, I’m pretty sure he loves it. But he pretends not to and only eats Burger King, just to be difficult.”

“I think we’d get along well,” says Natasha.

“Yeah,” says Pepper fondly, “I think you would.”

“You guys must be good for each other,” Natasha says. The words feel like they're scraping out of her throat.

“Yeah,” Pepper says again. “I owe him a lot. He really took a chance on me when I was twenty-two and a nobody, hiring me against everyone’s advice.”

Then a look crosses her face and she turns to meet Natasha’s eyes. “Oh we’re—we’re not _together_. We were once, for a while—when we were younger, in an on-again-off-again way, but… Tony’s not built for relationships. His brain is 99% work.”

“Oh,” Natasha says. She reaches out and touches Pepper’s side, where the tattoo is hidden beneath her dress, and asks, “How’s it healing?”

“Fine,” Pepper says in strangled voice. “Very well.” Her she rests a hand on Natasha’s arm and says, “You did a beautiful job,” and they both sit there like that, waiting to be shrugged off or turned down, and then Pepper leans forward: “Tell me if I'm wrong…”

And Natasha’s heart stutters to a halt. She lets her hand slide to Pepper’s back and pulls her close and Pepper is _kissing her_ and she smells _so good_. She licks into Natasha’s mouth and Natasha would gladly perish from asphyxiation if it meant she could keep kissing Pepper indefinitely.

+

Natasha is in her customary work boots, jeans so worn-in that she can slide them over her hips without unzipping them, stud belt probably from Hot Topic circa 2003 that she found wrapped around a fence in Bushwick, and tank top that shows off her full-arm sleeves.

An ex from a while back, a food blogger, once made fun of her for wearing the same thing every day. Her next girlfriend was an honest-to-god model and fashion designer and wore head-to-toe black every day because ‘it freed up space for creativity without using up energy every morning’, as stated verbatim in an interview with _Vogue_.

Natasha temporarily unblocked her ex to share the link to her wall.

“Natasha never forgets and she also never forgives,” Bucky once said to a customer, and Natasha pinched him, not because it was untrue, but for saying it out loud.

She has never been more grateful for these tattered, falling-apart jeans as she is right now, because Pepper unceremoniously hauls Natasha into her lap, facing outward, and shimmies them down her thighs. Pepper’s hands briefly return to Natasha’s breasts, dipping inside her bra to rub at her nipples, and then slide down Natasha’s stomach and to her legs.

With a dry throat, Natasha watches Pepper’s slim hands with their delicate manicure spread Natasha’s thighs apart, tease aside the thin strip of underwear fabric, and plunge both index fingers inside of her.

Natasha arches back as Pepper redistributes attention across Natasha’s soaked cunt and her clit, slowly and forcefully, and Natasha can't help the bucking of her hips. Before long she’s panting, “Oh god— _please_ —” against Pepper’s neck and what she means is _please, don't stop_ , and bless her, Pepper understands. She increases pressure and tempo until Natasha can feel her eyes rolling back in her head as her entire body shakes and clenches around Pepper’s fingers.

Pepper stays inside, steady, as Natasha shudders, and pulls one hand upward to sweep Natasha’s sweaty hair off her face.

Natasha can only focus on breathing.

Pepper huffs a laugh and kisses her, sweetly, gently, as Natasha comes down. She bites on Pepper’s bottom lip, relishing in the sharp inhalation, and then fatigue be damned: Natasha can rest later.

She turns around so that she’s facing Pepper and kisses her, hot and nasty. Pepper is wearing an ultra-expensive, ultra-minimalist white dress with _cap sleeves_ (truly she must be the only woman in the world who can pull off this look) and wonder of wonders, the designer made an executive decision to put a raw, exposed gold zipper in the _front_ of the dress.

Natasha has never cared about fashion more than she does now, as she unzips Pepper’s dress in one swift movement and carefully lays the dress aside on the seat. She makes fast work of unhinging Pepper’s bra, a pretty mesh thing with a mere hint of underwire, and then she has Pepper splayed out in front of her, adorably flushed, with glassy eyes and spit-slick lips.

Natasha has always loved small-breasted women, exactly because she can cup one in each hand and run her fingers over the soft flesh underneath, rubbing the nipples simultaneously, and have her mouth free to swallow the soft gasps and breathy moans Pepper is currently making.

She moves to slide down Pepper’s body, but Pepper grips her hips tighter to keep Natasha in her lap, grinding down on her.

“No, just—stay—like this—for now,” Pepper says through gritted teeth, and _jesus,_ she must be close.

Natasha slides her hands into Pepper’s hair as she kisses her. Natasha’s bra straps have slipped down her shoulders, which is allowing for some excellent skin-on-skin contact, and she can feel Pepper’s soaked silk panties against her clit as her own threadbare cotton ones get pushed aside.

Pepper makes a choked noise in her throat and Natasha grinds down again, hard, because _oh god, she’s close again too_ , she can feel it building, and then Pepper bucks beneath her and the friction pushes her back over the edge.

+

Natasha comes to when the car is pulling out of stop-and-go traffic and onto a wider boulevard. The sudden sunlight through the windows makes her flinch.

“You're sure—?”

“They really are tinted, don't worry,” says Pepper, sounding both fucked out and amused. It's a good look on her, and Natasha shows her appreciation by quickly lapping her tongue over a nipple. Pepper hisses in pleasure and slaps a hand across Natasha’s ass.

“Clothes,” she orders, and Natasha grins, because somehow she just _knew_ slim, sweet Pepper would be a bossy, sassy top.

She arrives at Triskelion loose-limbed and with a bag of Five Guys clutched in her hand. The moment she steps through the door, Nick gives her a look.

“That shade of lipstick on your neck,” he says, “is from an exclusive Tom Ford collection that only had an initial run of twelve tubes.”

+

Natasha is curled up in Pepper’s bed, in Pepper’s boxers, teaching her to count cards, when Tony Stark bursts through the door.

“Pep— oh god, my bad—” he claps a hand over his eyes as Natasha yanks the covers up to their necks, and he continues, “I need to talk to you about the beta test—”

“ _Tony_ , that is ultra-classified—”

“Well, unless you want to leave your love nest and extremely attractive girlfriend—I'm not objectifying,” he turns to face her, absurdly, with his eyes still covered, “—just stating the objective obvious. Pep, my data keeps blowing up in my face, literally, should I tweak the—thing with the thing or—jesus, this is useless, okay, should I rework the gamma strain or—”

“Oh my god.” Pepper flops back onto the pillows. “Remember the Hoffman project?”

“Yes? No? Hoffman prime or the second time around?” Tony pauses and then says, “ _Oh,_ yes, you're a genius,” and backs out of the room with his eyes still covered. “Pepper’s Girlfriend, tell Barnes to stop skipping his goddamn evals and get his ridiculous self-righteous golden Adonis of a husband to babysit once in awhile—”

The open window slams the door behind him, having caught on the crossbreeze, and Natasha slides out of bed to pick up the fallen cards.

“What a beautiful view,” Pepper sighs as Natasha leans over, and Natasha laughs in her face.

**Author's Note:**

> [ [tumblr](http://sonatine.tumblr.com) ]


End file.
